


Splinters of my Soul

by bloodvvitch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Branding, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, they're fucked up and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodvvitch/pseuds/bloodvvitch
Summary: They say that lying to your soulmate hurts like a branding iron.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 284





	Splinters of my Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Another old kinktober story (for branding obviously) that got away from me. I've got like... ideas for this AU that I'm really excited about, and this is where it all started.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely Hannibalsimago!
> 
> Title from 'Become the Beast', an amazing Hannibal fan song created by Karliene.
> 
> I thrive on comments, so let me know what you think!

Hannibal had never seen a benefit to soulmates. He had long become accustomed to the American obsession with destiny and romance, but acclimatization was not the equal of acceptance. There were not enough saccharine rom-coms in the world to convince him that the stain on his skin was anything other than the threat of ownership and a loss of control. Hannibal was not inclined to accommodate another person in his life. Any potential benefits of a soulmate were sharply outweighed by the near-certain costs.

It was fact, proven, and unquestionable that the presence of one’s soulmate could compel their other half to tell the truth. Those who had attempted lying would report agonizing pain in their soulmarks, burning like a branding iron. Even a passing falsehood was said to be nearly debilitating. The rest of the overly romantic drivel might have been handled, but Hannibal could not abide someone who would tear apart his life with their mere presence.

None of this negated the fact that Hannibal did have a soulmark, and thus, somewhere, a person who would see through all disguise and obfuscation. As a precaution, Hannibal had spent years training himself to speak in riddles, layering meaning upon meaning, phrases ambiguous, and cleverly wrought. He had mastered the art of telling truths in ways no one could believe. If he did happen upon his soulmate, he would feel the pull of honesty. Still, he was confident in his ability to evade detection until the problem could be neutralized. 

He thought nothing of drawing up a profile for William Graham, save that an acquaintance with Jack Crawford could prove very beneficial.

Then Mr. Graham glanced at him with an odd, calculated expression, and proceeded to talk circles around Hannibal’s circles. They spoke of taste, and minds, and eyes. Hannibal realized that their sparring was…fun. Challenging. When Will walked out, Hannibal was disappointed that it had ended.

Pure empathy was a gift of unqualified rarity. There may never have been another mind such as Will’s in the whole of history. There may never be again. 

So Hannibal brought Will a hearty breakfast of eggs and Cassie Boyle, expecting another verbal waltz. What he encountered was a cornered animal whose caustic tongue was skilled at evisceration. He makes Will laugh by the end, then nearly breaks through the profiler’s ingenious mask of weakness with an answer that is, perhaps, too honest. That morning makes it clear that Will is nearly his equal; it is rare that Hannibal must make a sacrifice to claim his victory. 

Their day ends by the bedside of Abigail Hobbes. Will is exhausted and angry at himself. In other circumstances, Hannibal would consider poking at this weak spot, but he finds that he’d much rather play the long game. William is interesting, insightful, unfailingly rude to everyone he meets, and yet he remains Hannibal’s preferred company.

A mongoose, indeed.

They meet again in Hannibal’s office, where he has the assumption of home-court advantage. But William asks if he feels obligated to Abigail Hobbes, and in the heartbeat pause, before Hannibal derives a witty, slithering reply, he feels the truth crawl across his tongue.

“Yes. I feel a staggering amount of obligation.” Will’s eyes are on him, startled into a blank expression.

The rest he covers over, half-truths winding their way through the trails of their conversation, and Will’s eyes refuse to meet his again. Hannibal is prepared for the rest of the questions. He is quick to answer, trusting habit to mask his meanings, certain not to pause longer than a breath. 

With every half-lie, he feels the mark on his sternum itch. 

It is months later, their courtship well underway, that Hannibal spares another thought for their soulmarks.

Even while contemplating the inherent weakness, he could admit the elegance of his mark: a pair of black antlers resting above his sternum, branching across his skin. It was a stark and powerful symbol. After so many conversations that skirted too close to the truth, Hannibal expects that Will’s skin holds an identical image. Perhaps, in a passing moment of romanticism, as his hands sweep Will’s shirt over his head, he even hopes.

He feels a discordant twinge of grief in his stomach as he gazes down at his almost-lover. Sitting atop Will’s chest is a detailed image of an anatomical heart. Hannibal runs a shaking hand over the mark, and Will laughs and says, “Morbid, I know. Scares most people off.”

“No,” Hannibal says, “It suits you, dear William.” And he grits his teeth as his own mark burns. Hannibal removes his own shirt and watches Will’s face as it moves, quicksilver, through confusion, realization, and disappointment.

“I’d thought-” Will shakes his head and runs a hand over his beautiful face. “This is the part where you call me naïve, isn’t it.”

Hannibal watches Will in extended silence before pressing his fingers to Will’s mark. He whispers, “I wish it was mine,” before he can corral his voice. Will’s eyes fly open, and Hannibal kisses him before his tongue can get any more mutinous.

A month’s dalliance expands to a season’s, then a year’s. Will slips into Hannibal’s life like water through sand, filling up the unknown empty spaces. They are not marked as soulmates, yet with every half-truth, Hannibal can feel the antlers itch – with every white lie, he can feel them flare and burn. And finally Will – clever, delightful, beautiful Will – grows tired of his evasions and starts asking questions.

This should be the moment that Hannibal kills Will. This should be the moment that Hannibal disappears. But when the cost is losing his Will he finds he can not summon forth the urge for self-preservation. Interaction becomes more challenging, each evasion more entertaining until they are dancing in tandem around the subject. He lets it go on for too long.

One night, as they meet each other feint for feint, it becomes clear that Will already knows and has known for quite some time. They keep dancing, though to what end Hannibal does not know.

Twelve days after this revelation, Hannibal delivers breakfast to Will and the dogs. He knows better than to verbally engage Will before coffee, but he does not resist the impulse to brush their lips together before handing over the cup. His lover looks exhausted.

Will stares at him, the intent gleam betraying an impossible question.

“Hannibal,” Will finally asks, blunt and irrevocable, “Are you the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Hannibal is still close to Will, foolishly close. “If you are asking the question, then I expect you already know the answer.”

This should be the moment when Hannibal gets caught.

What Hannibal could not expect is the dejected sigh against his lips as Will leans in for another kiss. “Stop it, Hannibal. Just lie to me, just once. You know I can’t, but I… I need to know…” He sounds so broken, so lost in anguish that Hannibal had never noticed. “Please,” Will mutters, “If you can lie to me, just prove it.”

Hannibal can not. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, and he can not lie to Will Graham.

He lets the person suit drop away, he lets his eyes grow cold. “I love you,” Hannibal says, which is not a lie. But William will not credit it, not when it falls from a monster’s lips.

Will steps away in pained shock, and Hannibal steps forward.

Will is strong when he fights, a good match for Hannibal, but only one of them is practiced at this game. Hannibal’s arm finds its hold around his lover’s throat, and he should press harder. He should end this aching in his heart and accept the life to which he had doomed himself. But Will sags against him, limp and unconscious, and Hannibal lets go. He cradles Will in his lap when he should cut open his chest and eat his heart, blood-filled and raw.

Instead, he hefts the man in his arms and tucks him into the backseat of his car. There is a medical kit in his trunk, and he injects Will with a dose of sedatives. He throws more sausage to the dogs, an offering of peace after what they witnessed, though Winston will not be distracted. 

Hannibal does not like dogs, however, he has found Winston to be acceptable, and dear William might appreciate the company. Winston jumps into the car without prompting and lays down on Will.

The drive to the safehouse on the cliff is uneventful. When they arrive, Hannibal gives Will another dose of sedatives and lays him before the fireplace, then gets to work. He would prefer more precise tools for this, but he does not have the patience or inclination to involve an outside party.

Hannibal strips Will carefully, taking his time to run his hands over his lover’s unconscious body. He had rarely considered the joys of physicality until he had made love to Will, and now he struggles to think of how he will live without that intimacy. There is a considerable chance that, after this night, his dear William will not allow Hannibal to hold him. He binds William with cuffs and collar and rope, leaving his chest exposed.

Will screams at the first touch of the poker to his skin, eyes fluttering open but unseeing. He does not fight his bonds. The cuffs and ropes look lovely as they pull against his skin, even if their mark of ownership is temporary. They’ve used them before in lovemaking, though Will has rarely looked as beautiful in them as he does now.

Another press of hot iron, another scream. Another and another, the pattern forming stroke by stroke. He is careful not to mar the mark on Will’s chest.

William Graham will belong to Hannibal, no matter what the universe has decreed.

The iron goes back into the fire. Hannibal cups Will’s cheeks and kisses him, softer than he has ever before dared. 

“You will understand when you wake, my heart.”

Hannibal bandages the wound and injects Will with another sedative. He craves his lover’s eyes upon him, but they have time, and it is best to keep Will docile until the design has set.

It takes two days for the dead skin to slough off, and Hannibal cleans it diligently. Two more, and he is confident that there will be no infection. The edges are showing signs of healing. They have been at the cabin for nearly a week when Hannibal allows Will to wake up.

Hannibal chooses not to be in the room. He puts out food, clean bandages, and a mirror within easy reach of the bed, and then he waits in the kitchen. Winston sits at Hannibal’s feet.

In the late afternoon, Winston leaves Hannibal’s side and heads to the bedroom. Within the hour, Winston is back, leading an unsteady Will. He has taken off his bandages and has not worn a shirt. 

The heart upon his chest is more lovely than ever, now that it has been framed perfectly within a pair of antlers.

Hannibal’s mark on Will’s skin, as it was always meant to be.

Will struggles to the table, and Hannibal does not rise to help. They sit in silence for minutes, and Winston lies between them.

“I wanted you to lie to me, Hannibal.” Will does not look away from him, but his hand raises to almost touch his wounded chest. “You didn’t.”

Hannibal reaches out for Will, who does not flinch away. He presses his palm to his lover’s neck, thumb rubbing at Will’s jawline. “No, my heart,” he says, “I did not lie.”

“Then the soulmarks are wrong,” Will breathes, leaning himself into Hannibal’s touch.

Hannibal hums and traces Will’s lips. “Or they are right, and I only found myself disinclined to hide from–” he stumbles as pain lances up from his mark, hissing through his teeth, his voice a growl, “– from one who could – ” The agony steals his breath and he cannot continue.

He sits and gasps for air as Will watches him. Then Will rises slowly and approaches Hannibal. “You deserved that,” he says simply, and straddles Hannibal’s lap. Will pulls him forward for a kiss, and it is all they do for long minutes. They pant into each other’s mouths as Will unbuttons Hannibal’s shirt and runs his hands over the skin he uncovers, and over the soulmark. His fingers dance along the antlers' points, then up to either side of Hannibal’s neck. 

Will’s eyes are monstrously gentle as he whispers, “If there is someone else with your mark, or with mine,” he interrupts himself with a kiss, “I’m going to skin them alive and feed them to my dogs.”

Hannibal shudders in Will’s grasp and looks upon his soulmate with reverence in his eyes.


End file.
